


Out Of His Depth

by Mahrteen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Canon Divergence, First Kiss, Fluff, Gen, I would kill for these two, Jon is demiromantic and demisexual, M/M, Martin is sweet, Pining, mid-season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27895141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mahrteen/pseuds/Mahrteen
Summary: Martin is staying at the Archives because Prentiss, you know. Jon learns to appreciate his company
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims/Martin Blackwood, Jonmartin - Relationship, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 139





	Out Of His Depth

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first jmart and I am TERRIFIED but also hey I hope y'all enjoy it
> 
> (No beta reader we die like Avatars, also not a native speaker so be kind)

Jon wakes up, and for a second he does not know where he is, and almost panics. It’s dark, and the sounds around him aren’t the familiar ones of his flat. He shifts slightly, the bed creaks a little, and he remembers.   
The small room in the Archive.   
The regular, soft sound of Martin’s breathing tells him he’s fast asleep beside him. He lets his eyes adjust to the darkness, with the help of the faint security lights in the corridor. Martin is sleeping on his back, arms and legs splayed, his mouth slightly open. He looks peaceful.

Slowly, the previous evening comes back to his mind, and he smiles to himself.

\--

Martin had been sleeping in the Archives for a few weeks by then, and Jon had taken to staying at his desk for longer and longer after closing time.   
He found himself sitting at his desk at increasingly late hours of the night. He listened to the silence, broken by the familiar moans and groans of the ancient building, and wandered the corridors, always ending up in the small, cosy breakroom. He sat at the table, a cup of bad, untouched tea getting cold in front of him, thinking about nothing in particular, sometimes flipping through this statement or that, until at some time in the night Martin also walked in, wearing his pyjamas and yawning, to get himself a cup of chamomile before going to sleep. At this point, Jon always put up some excuse and hurried back to his office, leaving shortly after to return to his flat.

Slowly, without noticing - or maybe without admitting he had noticed - Jon had begun going to the breakroom always at the same time, and entirely coincidentally it was around the time he knew Martin would be there, too.

Soon, he no longer left as soon as Martin appeared shuffling from the corridor. Instead he remained in his chair almost pointedly, sitting a little rigidly at the small table, turning the spoon in his teacup in a pretence of relaxation and indifference.  
For a while, neither of them talked. Martin entered the room, nodded towards Jon who nodded back, then made himself his tea and left, sometimes mumbling a “g’night”, sometimes just waving a hand in Jon’s direction. After a while they had started talking, small talk at first, work talk, anything to take their minds away from the real reason forcing Martin to be there at that time of night instead of sleeping in what Jon assumed was his very soft and warm bed in his very warm and cosy apartment.

The darkness in the Institute and the silence around them helped a little. It felt like they were suspended out of time, like whatever they said in those few minutes in the dead of night would never leave that room. Jon started sitting less stiffly on the spindly chair, Martin started walking around the room instead of standing awkwardly with his back to the sink and counter.  
They talked and talked, of nothing in particular, and soon the mumbled goodnights and “hot today, huh?” and the random futile small talk turned into real conversation. Nothing too deep, at first, but pleasant nonetheless.

They talked about Martin’s life out of the Institute, although Jon could almost physically feel Martin’s resistance towards certain subjects. He tended not to talk about his family, instead talking at length about his favourite books, or dog breeds, or kinds of tea. Jon was surprised at how much he enjoyed listening to Martin, to his voice growing excited and his words tumbling out unrestrained when he talked about this or that thing that had caught his attention lately. They also talked about work, about Tim and Sasha and their elusive boss, and about what was happening outside the doors of the Institute, the unspeakable horror waiting for Martin, the reason why he was staying there in the first place.

Jon was forced to admit that he had begun caring for Martin, and he felt a little guilty about how he had treated him in the beginning, when they had both recently been promoted to the Archives, and he thought of Martin as a nuisance, at best. He saw now that Martin was simply really, really shy, and a people pleaser to the excess. He wondered what had happened to him to make him want to never cross anyone, to always be on everyone’s good side. He suspected it had something to do with how his voice faded and his smile died every time the conversation touched the subject of his parents, even slightly.

Jon learned quickly to avoid the questions and subjects that he knew would upset Martin, focusing instead on those that made his smile widen and his eyes glow. He liked that look on Martin. He liked to listen to him talk. He was often disappointed when he glanced at the clock on the wall and realised that it was time to go home if he wanted to catch even just a few hours of sleep. He knew Martin hated being at the Institute alone, but he couldn’t certainly stay, right? He had no plausible excuse, for one, and the only place to sleep in was the small cot that was now Martin’s bed. He had fallen asleep at his desk once and he had sworn that it would never, ever happen again. His back had been in pain for days afterwards.

So every night he just got up from his chair, bid Martin goodnight, and left, sometimes lingering just behind the door to make sure Martin had locked himself in.

And then, that night.

“Oh dear, it’s late, I better get going” - it was almost midnight, and that was Jon’s usual cue. He stood up. “Lock the doors behind me, will you?” He turned to look at the other man, who was standing with his back to the small kitchen, the single fluorescent light illuminating him from behind.

“Martin…?”  
Silence. Martin did not move to follow him to the exit, he just stood there, his shoulders set, his posture stiff. He was fidgeting with his cup.  
Jon looked at him.  
“Would you… stay? Please?” It was barely a whisper, Martin was looking at his feet and not meeting Jon’s eyes.

It had been a long day at work, and their conversation that evening had touched sensitive subjects, tales from their childhoods that had made Jon feel sorry for Martin, and Martin for Jon.

Martin was clutching his empty mug with such force that his knuckles were white, and Jon feared it might just break in his hand. He shook away the mental image of Martin’s hand bleeding with a sharp shard of porcelain embedded in the palm.

“Martin, is… is everything ok?”  
“Yes.”  
A deep sigh.  
“ _No_. I… I just _hate_ this place, you know? I have lived here for three months now and I still hate it.”  
“Yeah, I- I get it.”  
Martin took a deep breath.  
“I don’t want to be alone.”

His voice was so sad, so full of loneliness, that Jon was at a loss for words. A flurry of thoughts crowded in his head, from “will the others notice I’m wearing the same clothes two consecutive days” to “I could sleep on the floor” to “This is madness” and everything in between. He stared.

“I’m sorry, I- I shouldn’t have asked. Look at me, whining like the biggest baby on earth. I’m sorry, Jon. Come, I’ll walk you to the exit.”

He was blushing furiously and still looking at his feet, still apologising as he walked to leave the room.

“Ok.” The word almost escaped his lips without him noticing. Martin turned around, surprised, blushing even redder (Jon didn’t think that was possible).  
“Did you…?”  
“I said, OK. I can stay, if you like. I know this place can be… _a lot_.”  
Martin perked up instantly.  
“I’ll make us some tea”, he declared, turning back to the counter and the small stove, busying himself with the kettle.

Jon leaned against the counter beside Martin, waiting for his cup, not knowing what to do with himself. Martin was still blushing a little, his ears red and hot, the freckles on his cheeks almost invisible behind his wire-framed glasses. He couldn’t stop staring at him. Martin didn’t seem to notice, while he moved around the kitchenette filling the kettle and choosing cups and teabags (and grumbling, as usual, because “teabags are not the proper way to make tea, and why can’t we have loose leaves like civilised people”). Jon smiled and let him rant, glad to hear that the sadness that had tinged his voice earlier was now gone.

When the tea was ready, they drank in silence for a few minutes, standing in the pool of light coming from the fluorescent over the counter. Jon was acutely aware of the proximity of Martin’s body to his, he could almost feel the heat emanating from him in waves. He wondered what would happen next, if Martin would simply go “ok, time for bed!” like in the most awkward sleepover ever, or if they would keep talking in the breakroom until morning.

“I can _hear_ you thinking.”  
Jon started. “What?”  
“You haven’t said a word in two full minutes, and your tea is getting cold. I can hear your brain cogs working.” Martin chuckled.  
“I- I wasn’t… I was…”  
“Yeah. I know. This is - this is awkward,” another chuckle. “I haven’t really thought this through. I didn’t think I’d ever have the courage to ask you to stay, let alone that you’d actually would. So now I am at a loss.”  
Jon looked at him without talking.  
“You know, I thought about this many times. I’d ask you to stay, you’d say yes, and then…” He blushed again, then caught himself, “I don’t know. I never thought I would actually ask. It was just a small silly fantasy of mine.”  
“A… fantasy?” Jon chuckled a little and immediately regretted it.  
“ _Yes_ , Jon. Pathetic Martin fantasising on spending a night alone with his boss while an evil worm lady is trying to kill him.”  
“I didn’t mean… Martin, I…”  
“I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. I’m just - just nervous, that’s all.”  
Without thinking, Jon took his hand. His heart was pounding. He was so much out of his depth that he thought he might drown, right there in the breakroom of The Magnus Institute, London.  
“I’m nervous, too.”  
Martin turned to look at him. “You are…?”  
“Yes. I- I never- I don’t know what to do.”  
Martin was staring at him, his eyes so brown and deep that Jon almost felt like he was going to fall into them.  
“You never… what?”  
" _This_. It's all new to me." Jon gestured, a wide sweep with his hand to include everything, the darkness, the room, Martin’s proximity, _them_. Martin was still staring at him. And he understood.  
“I... I would like to kiss you, now. If that’s ok?”  
Jon nodded, unable to speak.

Martin’s lips were soft and tasted like sweet tea. Jon closed his eyes and let his body rely on instinct. Martin’s free hand slowly rose to rest behind his head, delicately closing in his hair. He parted his lips slightly and felt Martin sigh softly, then slide his tongue gently in his mouth. He tried his best to return the kiss, feeling a bit too much like a schoolkid on his first date. He was still holding onto Martin’s hand, like a lifesaver, and Martin gently intertwined their fingers, strengthening his grip on Jon’s hand.

When they parted, Jon was short of breath.

“You are supposed to breathe, you know,” Martin chuckled, his forehead pressed against Jon’s, his eyes still closed, his breath warm on Jon’s lips. His hand was still on the back of Jon’s head, his fingers delicately caressing the short hair under Jon’s ponytail.  
Jon didn’t trust his voice, so he said nothing, squeezing Martin’s hand instead.  
“I’m sorry, I tend to joke when I’m nervous.”  
“It’s ok. You’re right, I… I don’t have a lot of experience. I…”  
Martin stopped him with a gesture of his hand. He fell silent.  
“I understand. I saw your ring, and the pins on your bag. You don’t need to justify yourself. For anything.”  
Jon opened his mouth, surprised.  
“You saw…And you knew...?”  
“Yeah,” an embarrassed little chuckle, “Well, I had to google it, but… Well. It’s OK. It’s _fine_.”  
Jon was, again, speechless. His heart was racing, and it was entirely new for him, he had never felt like this for another person. He took a steadying breath.  
“So what now?”  
“Well, the tea is cold, so we cannot drink that.” Martin laughed. “So I guess it’s time to go to bed.” His voice dropped. “You can leave, if you want to. I think I'll be ok, now.”  
Jon thought about it. It was around one in the morning, if he left now he could still catch five or six hours of sleep in his own bed. Staying would mean sharing a bed with Martin, or sleeping on the floor, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for either thing. He was silent for a while, his brain working furiously.  
“Or I could give you the cot. I have a sleeping bag, and I am used to floors.”  
Jon looked at Martin, at his hopeful face and the blush already creeping up again towards his cheeks, and made up his mind.  
“That won’t be necessary,” he said, with a small smile. “But I’m afraid I will need to borrow a shirt.”


End file.
